I don’t even know who I am anymore

Thanks to our dumbass moon’s gravitational pull on Earth, your zodiac sign and daily horoscope are filthy lies. And asking, “What’s your sign?” is more likely to trigger an identity crisis than get you laid (or at least, get you a fake phone number).

In an assertion that has rocked the astrological world to its hokey core, the Minnesota Planetarium Society (read that: astronomers) announced that the moon’s gravitational pull on Earth’s wobbly axis has actually bumped the stars’ alignment to the Earth by around a month. And it’s been that way for quite some time.

(Dear Astrology, why must you turn my identity into a house of lies…again? Fondly, Zac)

Since astrological signs—and by extension, our celestially determined character traits—are dictated by the sun’s position in the constellations on the day we were born, you can see where problems might arise.

Astrologers haven’t been in a pickle of this magnitude since 1816’s Year Without a Summer, when Earth faced a volcanic winter that blotted out the sky and made stargazing an exercise in futility.

In a desperate attempt at damage control, astrologers have diverted attention from this astronomical blunder by adding a shiny new 13th zodiac sign (well, not really new at all, but rather one that astrologers have kept locked in the basement for centuries, and which the Babylonians consciously omitted because they thought 12 sounded sexier than 13; very scientific, indeed) called Ophiuchus, the serpent wrestler. And no, “serpent wrestler” is NOT an astrological euphemism for masturbation; although I must admit, in most depictions Ophiuchus does appear to be wrangling some kind of trouser snake betwixt his legs. See?

So what does all this mean to you? I have no idea. I don’t even know you. But if you’re like me, it means you’ve been an allegedly clever, spontaneous and stubborn Aquarius for your whole life (or whatever your respective sign may be), and now you have an identity problem. As for me, suddenly I’m this unimaginative, patient, materialistic Capricorn with a killer attention span. I don’t even know how to begin to live like that.

According to Parke Kunkle, astronomy professor and chief agitator of this rabble-rousing Minnesota Planetarium Society, here are the revised dates of the new Zodiac. So pay attention, lest you continue living a fiction:

Not sure of the broader impact—by which I mean of course, secondary, tertiary and even (gasp!) quaternary ramifications—of this news on the metaphysical world just yet. But what I do know is, I’m definitely gonna have to change my personality to fit my hitherto dormant Capricornian nature. Maybe I should hire one of those cult deprogrammers.

And be on the lookout for a pay-per-view astronomers vs. astrologers Thunderdome death match in the near future, right when the sun passes through Pisces—I mean, Aries.

07.21.2010 "Big," Macy Gray. For anyone seeking another Macy Gray album on par with "On How Life Is," look no further. Though not as instantly catchy, with repeated listenings it's simply euphoric. "Big" showcases Macy's highly under-appreciated wordsmithery, her peerless phrasing and that otherworldly helium voice—the most engaging and expressive female voice I've heard since Nina Simone.

02.18.2011 “Return to the Sea,” Islands. Following the brilliant, short, happy life of Montreal indie rock band The Unicorns and their gem, “Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone?” frontman Nick Diamonds and drummer J’aime Tambeur emerged from the ashes to form Islands—and one of the more compellingly quirky, epic, sprawling and distinctive albums known to man.

09.15.2011 "Fuzzy" and "Mighty Joe Moon," Grant Lee Buffalo. Part Wilco, part Eddie Vedder, part Elliott Smith. And yet, completely original. Why more people haven’t heard Grant Lee Buffalo is a crime against good taste. Two of the best albums of the ‘90s right here, masterfully written, voiced and shredded by Grant-Lee Phillips.

12.7.2011 "Mr. Wizard," R.L. Burnside. If this old school, north Mississippi juke joint bluesman doesn't (at the very least) get your head a-bobbin' or toe a-tappin', then you're fucked—because you have no soul. That's a fact. Burnside, a toothless, badass septuagenarian who's now passed away, shreds Mississippi Delta blues—right when it turned electric. Saw him in concert back in 2001, and it was easily one of the top 3 shows I've ever had the privilege to attend.